Calendars
by Bellsie805
Summary: They keep getting him calendars.


Title: Christmas Calendars

Author: Bellsie

Rating: PG-13 for cuss words

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Pairing: House/Cameron

Summary: House hates calendars.

Author's Notes: Unbeta-ed because I want to get this up before Xmas is over. And I made it. Go me!

Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve…

--Dan Fogelberg, "Same Old Lang Syne"

They keep getting him calendars.

He hates calendars because they restrict his daily life to a miniscule box—life is meant to be lived and life is meant to be mourned.

Life is not meant to fit in an inch-by-inch square with neat little lines. Life is messy—kind of like the way her purse is when she spills it on the floor.

;';

House went to the mall to return the calendar. Simple, easy task. It would take him no more than five minutes if the lines were bad (but they wouldn't—no one returns calendars). He'd been in and out of the humanity-filled edifice quickly enough. He wouldn't have to mingle with people of a lesser IQ than he.

That is, until he knocked into her.

Cameron had been gone from the department for five years now. Her fellowship had ended, her infatuation had been crushed—she had gone. Fact of life that could be scribbled onto those stupid calendars—_Cameron left_. But he refused to admit that she left on Christmas Eve because he had been himself (an ass) and because she had grown a spine (a facsimile). But now, _now_ it was his fault again for knocking into her—she had been standing in front of him, purchasing some cute, little Baby Einstein calendar that promised "stimulating images for your burgeoning genius." He had thought she was an idiot, this woman of blonde hair and toned ass. He had thought her hips could never let children pass through them.

"House!" She gasped in her feminine voice as she grasped for the strap of her seemingly expensive bag.

"Surprised?"

;';

He hadn't meant to knock into her. He had been jostled first by some moronic teenager careening through the mall on his new skateboard. His right arm had been clipped and his cane spiraled and hit the purse that had been dangling from her fingers and then the handbag was on the floor and her eyes were drilling into his and, and, and…

_Everybody lies_.

;';

"What are you doing here?" She asks with incredulity in her voice.

"Purchasing something. It's what you do at crappy little kiosks in the middle of the mall."

(Let the cashier look mock offended. He doesn't care about other people's emotions. Too much time, too much energy, too much space taken up on the calendar).

"Oh, right. Well, I'll let you get on with it."

She finishes stuffing the rest of the items that fell out of her purse back into the satchel. He takes notes of some of the items—Tylenol, lip-gloss, a mirror, and cell phone—the staples for a 30-something professional (mother). She removes money from her pocket and pays for her calendar. House looks at his own calendar and thinks that harassing Cameron about having a child is so much better than getting ten bucks back. He'll just regift it to Wilson next year.

She starts walking away (quickly, like she's embarrassed). He walks behind her and taps her leg with his cane.

"So, you've got a kid?"

"Yeah, I do."

She doesn't turn around (definitely embarrassment).

"You wanna talk about it? I want some coffee."

"You want some free coffee and I don't want to talk about it. It was nice to see you, House, but I've got to go."

"Home to change diapers? Do you hate the fact that that child dictates how _you_ live your life?"

She whirls at this statement. Her cheeks are red (embarrassment—1, exertion—0).

"I love my little Belle. All right? I love her—"

"Do you hate the fact that your waist won't get back to that anorexia-like size? That running doesn't do anything for your figure anymore?"

"—Shut up!"

A nerve, he notes, has been touched. He walks up to her, hooks his arm through hers, and turns her around. He makes her walk.

"What have you done with your life in five years, Dr. Cameron? Who did you marry? Who'd ya fuck?"

She tries to pull away; she avoids his face. She left in disgrace—she'll leave with her pride.

"I'm married to a doctor. I have a daughter, Isabelle. She's two."

"And you follow my career in those medical journals that you still subscribe to?"

"No."

"Liar."

"What about you House? What have you done? Who have you fucked?"

"Fifty hookers. Recycled comebacks, by the way, don't have the sting of original ones."

"You threw me out."

"I did not. You did it to yourself. You were such a baby."

She tightens her grip on her bags and he swings the calendar around in his hand. They've always had pretenses and she's always come in with pretext, but they've skipped all of that this time.

"I stayed longer than Foreman and Chase. I stayed longer than Stacy. I stayed and you didn't want me."

"You still love me," he mutters triumphantly.

(It's his flaw, his hubris. He makes the assumptions based on circumstantial evidence—and sometimes he convicts the wrong person and sometimes he condemns the right one. But how can he be so sure without the hard facts right there?)

"I don't. I did. Once. Maybe walking down the aisle. Maybe putting on my veil. I don't anymore."

He quiets and her head is turned in profile towards him (If he took a picture now, would that fit on this lousy calendar?)

"Why not?"

"Because you never did. Because you had an infatuation with me. I liked you, House. I thought you were brilliant and brash and handsome, but that night…you threw me out. You told me I was stupid and childish and everything that Stacy wasn't. You told me you didn't need my compassion. You were drunk and drugged, but House! It hurt."

"You hurt too easily," he murmurs.

(They've reached the doors now and it's time for them to part. He's terrible at reconciliation.)

"So, I do. I'm happy now, House. Happy. Is that too much to ask to be? Why do you avoid it so avidly?"

"Why do you look for it in the wrong places?"

"Because there are never any right places. You find it somewhere and you just have to accept that this is what it's like to be happy. You and I didn't work. I was young; you were old. I'm older now, too, and I'm…I'm…it's been too long."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" He sneers because that's how he asks questions—with a sneer on his face.

She smiles and pushes the door open.

"Merry Christmas, House."

;';

(And now he's left with a calendar he doesn't want, filling up the days and spaces with empty emotions. His life's small enough now to be easily confined to a 1x1 space.)


End file.
